Memento Mori
by Fortuna's Smile
Summary: The Dark Side -"And Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort, did something the wizarding world did not believe him capable of." And several other short fics.
1. Memento Mori

_**A.N.: Thanks to Anamarie V for beta-ing!**_

_A.N.: I find myself strangely obsessed with the bad guys. So I´ll post here several One-Shots about the Dark Side, each with another main character, to be read separately or as a joint portrait. _

**Memento Mori**

He was alone. Wormtail was scurrying around somewhere, but he couldn´t really be counted. The rest had fled as soon as he had allowed them to.

The boy had escaped. Again.

There was some prophecy, he had heard about it long ago. Of course he did not believe in such foolish concepts as fate and destiny. _The one with the power_...

It was ridiculous, really. The boy had no power at all. It was just like Dumbledore to believe in this future-telling nonsense. _Power_ –the boy had lain writhing in pain on the ground before him tonight. He had not shown any sign of being more powerful than the average fourteen year old.

Sure, there was courage –how typically Gryffindor!- and defiance and determination, but nothing beyond that. The boy had escaped because of the unlucky coincidence of brother wands, for Merlin's sake!

It would almost have been better if the stupid boy had some powers. At least it wouldn't leave him in the awkward situation to explain why a totally normal boy –a fourteen year old! –could have escaped. Again!

He had seen the doubt in some of his follower's eyes tonight. The doubt if their Lord was as strong as he had been thirteen years ago. And the ambition, the calculation, to take his place if he wasn't. Most of them were Slytherins, after all. He had shown them that he was truly back, that he was again the most powerful amongst them, and the pain would keep reminding them that disobedience was no option.

But the boy had escaped a-- It really always came back to Potter. He rightfully should have died on their first encounter, or at least on their second, even the third... but tonight had been the fourth! Like a cat with nine lives, the boy simply wouldn't die.

Not that he was particularly fond of killing –he knew some of his Death Eaters killed just for the sake of killing- but he generally took only those lives that were necessary. Killing was a means to an end in his opinion; sometimes he would even regret having to take the life of a worthy opponent, someone who could have earned a high place in his ranks if they only had chosen the right side. Of course, most were just a nuisance to his plans, worthless fools whose death was no loss, or Mudbloods whose mere existence was a disgrace and threat to the old, true ways of wizardkind. They deserved neither mercy nor pity; he did what he had to.

The boy, naturally, knew nothing about that. With Dumbledore in the school, the students would, of course, learn nothing about the danger that Muggles posed for wizardkind. Generations of students that had no idea. It was high time that Dumbledore lost his influence and some proper morals and principles were taught at Hogwarts.

He had an aim and the wizarding world would be thankful when they realised what he had done for them. When their world was _clean_ again, when he had installed the old order again, when Muggles were put into their rightful place again. Pure wizarding families would be aware of their superiority. There would be no Muggle Protection Laws and such stupidities, no wizard in fear of Muggles, suffering from them, no wizard under the influence of Muggles, no wizard compelled to bear their presence. Yes, he had an aim, and, in the end, wizardkind would realise that he had done it for the best of them all.

He stood at his Muggle father's grave and swore he would achieve his purpose. TOM RIDDLE. His _Muggle_ father.

Buried like his own Muggle heritage, his Muggle roots. It was his past that lay buried here, for he was Lord Voldemort now.

And yet –TOM RIDDLE. On a marble gravestone. A _gravestone_. It had been his name once, when he was as young as Potter was now. _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord_...

And Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort, did something the wizarding world did not believe him capable of.

He trembled slightly.

"Wormtail!" Maybe it was time to find out the rest of that prophecy.


	2. We Shall Go Down in History

**We Shall Go Down in History**

The Dark Lord would not have become as great as he is without me. I know this, and, deep down, Lord Voldemort knows it as well. He would not acknowledge it, of course, but I would be his second in command if he tolerated anyone substituting for him.

He was great when I first met him, powerful, strong and convincing; but I could see where he could improve. Power only gets you so far. Not even the most powerful wizard could control every single person on this planet. That´s where my particular skills come in.

You see, I know how to play people. You want them to believe you are the most capable man for a certain job? You want the public to respect you for something you've never done? You want a whole country to cower in front of you, at your bidding? I am your man.

I've always been good at that, but Lord Voldemort is my masterpiece. If he had been tempting, I made him a promise of power, alluring like light to the moths. If he had been feared, I made him a paralysing terror that people succumbed to without resistance. If he had been convincing, I made him irresistible.

When I joined him, I saw the potential he had. I knew about his heritage, I'm one of the few who knows he was once Tom Riddle, but I do not care. In fact, I think this inferiority complex I'm sure he has may make him even more convincing – one fights nothing more than what one hates within oneself. It goes without saying that I've never told him that.

Anyway, during his first rise I was his propagandist, his manipulator, I played the Ministry, the press, and the public for him. If I do say so myself I am a brilliant tactician, I can mobilize the masses, I can feed popular resentment –and I did.

Greed and fear – that´s what motivates people. I don´t know how many I convinced of joining the Dark Lord while carefully using these emotions. And once they've joined the cause, it's so easy to get them to fight. At the beginning they don´t want to – why should they risk their lives if they have nothing to gain and only to lose? but then you tell them they are under a threat or attack – you raise their fears – you call those who don´t want to fight cowards and traitors – you tell them to defend themselves against their enemies. And then they will fight for you, and murder, and torture, and they will feel right about it. It's so _easy_.

You might ask what I got by joining the Dark Lord's side. Well, I don´t think in sides. I have always chosen what gains me most. The Dark Lord offered me greater power so I showed him a loyal facade. But I planned for all eventualities -I always had some security measures just in case my Lord was defeated –and it paid off after his downfall. I had to give up my power plays, at least to some degree, but I could return to a normal and respectable life without losing my face –or my freedom or soul.

I waited. I knew the Dark Lord would come back. And I knew he would welcome me back. That´s what I've been living for these past years, the day he would return. I stayed at Malfoy Manor most of the time, biding my time. It was the longest time of my life and the most boring. I'm no stay-at-home Dad. I'm no family man. I'm simply not interested.

My son? I'm not proud of my son. He is very different from what I would have liked him to become. Oh, he´s not _good, _no Muggle or Dumbledore-lover, no defender of humanity, like those pathetic dreamers think they are. No, he is the firmest believer in pureblood ideas you could wish for, he will be dead loyal to the Dark Lord –and that´s exactly what I find so contemptible.

If asked he would betray me in an heartbeat –don´t get me wrong, I don´t mind that –but he would betray me for the Dark Lord, to _serve someone else_, not for himself and his own advantage!

He has never learned to put aside his opinions and beliefs to reach his goals, never would he work with a Mudblood to reach his aims. In fact I don´t know if he has aims of his own at all, apart from his little schoolboy fights with the Potter boy. He is my son, and yet he isn't –he has nothing of my strength and intelligence, my ambition and cunning. He is a follower.

Yes, I am strangely disappointed in my son. He does believe in what I only pretend to believe in. He does not see the greater picture, he does not understand that opinions are only used to manipulate others into doing what you wish; they are not meant for _you_ to be believed in! They will prevent you from becoming truly great.

There are times when I wonder how the Dark Lord could become that great, for he is terribly narrow minded sometimes, too. But, of course, he would and could bend his principles if truly need be; only there was seldom need to – you are not the most powerful wizard of your time for nothing.

But my son is not powerful. The Malfoy line will probably end with him – I don´t know if he has the cleverness to stay alive long enough to sire a child. Maybe the proximity of death – and the Dark Lord's presence is the presence of Death – will knock some sense of survival into him.

I don´t care much though. Contrary to popular belief – and I would never let anyone publicly belittle the Malfoy name – I don´t really care that much about family lines and my name being carried on. What use is it after I'm dead? I will not raise an heir and risk him taking over sooner than I want him to, well, risk him taking over before I'm dead... risk him taking over by _causing_ my death... I'm not my father.

I don´t have to expect that from my son. I don´t expect anything anymore from my son – except faithful loyalty and almost canine devotion. Maybe he should have been a Hufflepuff.

I'm not blind to the irony though –I watch my son with disdain and yet here I am, finally forced to remain loyal, forced to stop toeing the line, forced to choose a side and stay there. Getting caught in the Ministry in Death Eaters´ robes cursing the Boy-Who-Lived sure burns all the bridges behind you.

I have shown my true colours. I do not have the chance to turn back anymore – no backup plans, no safety precautions anymore. I will either win with Lord Voldemort or die with him – victory or destruction, there is no other choice left.

I have chosen and I will follow my Lord. I will fight this battle with all my ability and all my strength. I will be at my Lord's side.

And we shall go down in history as the world's greatest wizards of all time – or as the greatest criminals.


	3. Enthusia

  
**Enthusia **

When Regulus first saw her he didn't realise there was something strange about her.

A little girl in a busy street wasn't uncommon after all, even if there seemed to be no parents with her. And it was a very important day for Regulus – his father had taken him out for his birthday; he was finally of age.

As the heir of the Black family – since his own brother had so foolishly rejected that honour – he deserved only the best. His father had promised him something special for his birthday.

"Ah, Mr Black! And your son is with you today, my, he´s grown since he was here the last time! How may I serve you?"

Then Regulus spotted the little girl pressing her nose against the window of the shop. She breathed against the glass and drew a smiling face.

"You're of age already! Well, a fine young lad you are." Regulus turned back to the shopkeeper and noticed the small object in his hands.

"So, you just put it around your neck and no one can track the magic back to you. Very useful things, I sold a lot of them recently."

After a small nod from his father Regulus put the necklace around his head. At first nothing happened, then a soft tingling feeling spread through his body. The owner of the shop nodded approvingly. "That´s it. Now, as long as you wear it, your magic won't be detected."

He winked at Regulus. "Make good use of it, lad. I know for what you young ones use it, and all I can say is if the Ministry doesn't see it´s for the best of us all... I'll sleep better when those Muggles are taken care of, believe me."

# # #

Rodolphus told him about the Muggle hunt. They were sitting in one of the shadier pubs in Knockturn Alley, where you needn't be careful with your opinions. Rodolphus and his friends had caught some Muggles and let them escape again. Telling them they would let them live if they survived till dawn.

Two Muggles had scraped through, barely, and so they had kept their word and let them live. Without memories of course. And with a few hexes. The Muggle authorities hadn't known what to do with two lunatics, who hadn't a clue who they were. One of them belching slugs from time to time, while the other sprouted wriggling tentacles all over his body.

It sounded exciting and adventurous and fun.

Only when he left the pub to go home did Regulus notice the young girl, too young to be in a pub on her own, really. He wondered where he had seen her before, then shrugged and headed out into the rain.

# # #

Tonight would be the night. Regulus stood at the window of his bedroom and watched the people on the street outside. In truth, he didn't see much of them, but it was a nice pretence. Tonight he would go with Barty and some other friends on his first 'Muggle hunt'. Or something similar. At least he would be finally with them, part of the group.

How it would feel? Killing a Muggle? He had been hunting with his father a few times. Would it be the same? His first killed Muggle. At last he would be able to _do_ something. To prove his worth. No longer ickle Regulus. He was _fighting for his principles_.

The young woman on the street smiled up to him. She was pretty, in a cheerful way. She waved. Regulus suddenly realised what was wrong. _She_ _should not be able to see_ _this house_, much less him inside it! He hastily stepped back from the window.

She wasn't there anymore after he had convinced himself that it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Probably just nervousness. It was his first night out with them after all.

# # #

This was definitely crazy. Regulus did not dare stare at her. In the presence of the Dark Lord you paid attention to _him_, and _only_ him. But he was sure he had seen a woman outside the circle of Death Eaters that surrounded him. A woman that seemed familiar. Which was absolutely crazy, since there were very few woman among the Death Eaters, and he knew them, and she wasn't one of them. And anyway, she would have to wear a mask like everyone else.

Pain ripped through Regulus' body, originating from his left arm. The Dark Lord had marked him. Finally he was one of them. And he had missed it! Missed the speech of the Dark Lord, and the ceremony, and the spell for the Dark Mark.

What would the Dark Lord think of him! Letting his mind wander like that on such an important moment. Regulus winced on the floor and swore he would serve his master better in future.

Soft fingers stroked over his face and through his hair, and Regulus did not dare to open his eyes. Nevertheless he knew she was smiling benignly down at him. He shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the coldness of the stone floor.

# # #

There she was again. Once he had mentioned her to Barty, had pointed out the woman in the shadows of the street. Barty had looked at him like he was mad. There was no woman in the shadows. They had searched the whole street before they entered the Muggle house. Fortunately the raid had begun shortly afterwards and Barty, eager to begin the fun, had forgotten about Regulus question.

He wished he could forget about her too. It wasn't possible. Not when she seemed to follow him everywhere since he got the Dark Mark. Everywhere. He had nearly cut his throat when she appeared in the mirror while he shaved.

She was beautiful. She always smiled.

Red sparks shot up – the signal. Time to enter the house of the Auror's family. It had to be done – and why didn't those idiots at the Ministry understand that they were doing the _right_ thing? If the Aurors were that stubborn and opposed them it was their own fault, really.

He brushed past the woman on his way into the house and for the first time noticed the fine wrinkles around her eyes.

# # #

Regulus dragged himself into his family's house. Holding tightly to the walls he managed to reach the bathroom and sank to the floor near the toilet. The small box with healing potions stood on the shelf. It could as well have stood on the moon for he was in no state to get up again.

He wished the woman would take the box and give it to him, but he had never seen her touch anything, apart from the occasional stroke over his face that is. Like he had guessed, she didn't help him. She seemed tired that night, and her smile lacked the usual brilliance. It made him feel even worse than he already did.

He had disappointed his master. It didn't matter that the mission had been unaccomplishable in the first place. Nevertheless Regulus had tried, he had done everything he could - and some things he hadn't known he could – but it just wasn't enough. He had failed his master; he deserved any punishment the Dark Lord deemed necessary. But he hoped he would have some time to recover before he was called again.

# # #

The Muggle screamed. Bellatrix and her newly wed husband laughed. Regulus managed not to sigh. He simply could not bring himself to enjoy it anymore. It was always the same, always the same old ritual... There were many ways to torture someone –and his cousin Bellatrix knew them all, apparently –but really, what was the point? In the end they screamed, and then they died. He could not understand why he had been so excited once about going on a Muggle hunt.

Regulus tried to look around without attracting attention. It wasn't a good idea to appear disinterested in the evening's activities. Where could she be? There were times recently when she wasn't there. It disturbed him, more than he cared to admit. He had gotten used to her.

He nearly gasped as he discovered her. She was old –when had she gotten that old? She had been his mother's age the last time he remembered seeing her –and more translucent then ever. He could not take his eyes away from her.

A last, high scream drew his attention. Then the Muggle was finally dead. Regulus hid his disgust. When he turned back to the woman she was leaning on a walking stick.

# # #

He had decided on a direct approach. No use in beating around the bush.

"Who are you?"

She seemed surprised that he had talked to her. Come to think of it, it was surprising that it had taken him so long to ask her that question. He had always assumed she wouldn't answer him.

"Don´t you know that already?"

He should have known. Answer a question with another question. Well, two could play that game.

"How should I?"

She only shook her head, her old eyes wise and a bit watery. With an effort she stood straighter but was nevertheless much smaller than him, like many old people whose bodies seemed to shrink at the end of their lives.

But she wasn't that old.

"What is happening with you?"

"You already know that too."

It was the last thing she said to him.

# # #

Regulus stood paralysed. The little girl –it was so much like _her_. Like she had been the first time he had seen her. How little time had passed since, and how much had happened. How much had changed. How much he had changed.

He had to do it. He wouldn't survive the night if he didn't do it. And even if he sacrificed his own life it wouldn't help the little girl. Someone else would take his place and do his job and it would make no difference for her.

"_Avada Kedavra_"

Regulus felt something inside him break. She wasn't just a Muggle. Her hair had another colour than _her_ hair had had – of course now it was all grey anyway **–** and her face was different too. But she had the same nose – he could imagine her pressing it against a window- and those shining eyes, and the same smile.

Only that she didn't smile anymore, and never again would. Nor press her nose against a window and draw in the condensation. And her eyes only reflected the light from the street lamps.

That night Regulus cried for the little girl. The old woman did not come to his side, or stroke his face. He did not see her again. With his first tear Enthusia had died.

So did soon later Regulus.

# # #


	4. Like Son

**Like Son**

McNair watched hungrily until it would be his turn. Soon, soon...

The flesh under his fingers, his axe, his whip... The blood that would spill on the floor... His breath quickened. Soon, soon, it would be his turn.

The sound of a bone breaking, skin ripping, the whimpering, ooh, the begging... then the screams, the pleas, the agony...

He felt the blood rush through his veins – he was alive – soon it would be his turn...

The smell of fear, of terror, of nameless horror... his victim before him, _he_ could decide what would happen, he could give mercy... or death...

He felt the excitement, _he_ was the master, _he_ would bend their will, they would obey his orders –_he_ would _make_ _them._ This was _power_, and it was his.

_ # # # _

_McNair suddenly jerked up from the couch he had fallen asleep on. _

His dream –ahh, it had been a good time when his Master was alive. Killing beasts for the Ministry simply wasn't the same –they didn't understand to the same degree that he had power over them, the power to give them life or death. –Of course, most also couldn´t properly scream or beg...

What had disturbed his pleasant dream?

_Another hit with the walking stick told him what had woken him up_. "Don´t laze around here! Do something useful, boy, or I'll find something for you to do!"

_McNair quickly hurried out of the room_.

No matter how old he got, no matter how many others had lain before him, no matter how much power he had held over them...

_McNair smiled bitterly as he stepped outside the house_. His father had always mastered him.


	5. Freaks

**Freaks **

Mr Goyle wasn't a man of many words. But his wife was. Well, a woman of many words, of course.

"Really, can you believe it? The_y_ were all sitting outside around that thing, making a horrible racket. Laughing and shouting –you could have heard them all the way down the street! No manners, really, it´s disgusting!"

Mr Goyle grunted before taking a second help of the mashed potatoes.

"And their children! Playing with those abnormal things, beeping and flashing and whatnot! Well, what can you expect with parents like these! That´s no upbringing a child, I tell you. A good beating would probably get them to show some respect."

Mr Goyle thought fondly of his own son. The occasional trashing had done him good, he had learned to obey and follow orders without questions. He might even have learnt how and where to hit so it would hurt most. All very valuable and useful things to have learnt.

"But it perhaps wouldn't matter anyway. The abnormality runs in the blood, I say, they simply aren't like us."

Mr Goyle knew she was right. Lucius had said so as well. And of course the Dark Lord. Mr Goyle knew he was not the brightest but Lucius had always been the one with the highest marks in school. If he said this abnormality couldn´t be cured it must be true.

"And this _thing_! They were _cooking_ on it! Out in the garden! And it didn't have any fire, Merlin knows how it worked."

Mr Goyle didn't understand it either. If truth were told he was a bit frightened by it. Never would he be able to learn to use one of those- those _things_. He simply wasn't clever enough for it, he knew. Maybe Lucius could. But of course Lucius was too noble to do something like this.

Mr Goyle was quite grateful for people like Lucius. It was people like Mr Goyle who would never understand the strange things and be left behind. And people like Lucius surely _could_ use them, but because they didn't Mr Goyle wasn't left behind.

"And then they saw me –I was out in our garden to water the flowers. Of course I would never want to meet them or to see them –and that woman had the audacity to ask if I wanted to join them! As if I would ever eat anything they had cooked on that horrible thing!"

Mr Goyle shuddered sympathetically. He liked food. But eat something _they_ had made? On one of their things? You never knew what you might catch. That abnormality was probably contagious. It was bad enough to live near them. Mr Goyle frowned as he thought about what influence their mere presence next door might have on his family.

"And she told me they would build a greenhouse in the backyard, apparently her husband has gotten another pay rise. Really, as if _they_ can do anything that´s worth any money!"

Mr Goyle remained silent. Money was always a touchy subject. Stacking goods in the warehouses in Knockturn Alley wasn't that well paid. Generally he didn't mind –Mr Goyle could care for his family and that´s what had always counted for him.

"And a greenhouse! Just to show off! As if a they hadn't already build their houses all over the place!"

When Mr Goyle had married his wife they had moved in the house of his parents –a nice, little house in the countryside, away from all prying Muggle eyes. But in the last years money had become an issue.

"They even invited more of those freaks over for lunch. It´s so disgusting, really, as if one of these horrible families wasn't enough!"

Mr Goyle remembered well how the situation had changed over the years. Their home really was in a lovely part of the country. At first- and relatively far away- there was only one cottage, barely noticeable from the Goyle's house –and then they had kept springing up like mushrooms after the rain. More and more, and nearer and nearer, until the Goyle's home was surrounded.

"Why we have to endure them I don´t know! It´s time someone does something about them! It´s simply not right!"

Mr Goyle had written to the Ministry when the first houses were built. The Ministry had answered two years later, when there were about fifteen houses. Then they had said that it would be too much trouble to keep everyone away and modify their memories. Mr Goyle and his family should just be nice to them and fit in.

They could not afford to move away and buy another house, they could not sell their house to Muggles –never in their lifetime would they get rid of all the enchantments and spells on the house to make it fit for Muggles move in. And what wizard would want to live here? Constantly hiding their magic, -it was a shame, really, for any respectable wizard.

"They should get back to where they came from –here is no place for them, we don´t want them! We were here long before them! Thank Merlin this is about to change – soon we'll be rid of them. Maybe we could even get some decent people for neighbours –"

Mr Goyle flinched and grabbed his left arm.

"-What is it? Do you have another meeting?"

Mr Goyle nodded and pushed his empty plate away.

"Here, take that recipe with you, it´s for Martha, I promised to send her my apple pie recipe. Her husband will be there, won't he? He shall just take it home for her."

Mr Goyle took the recipe and eyed his own dessert sadly. Of course Mr Crabbe would be there. His friend always was.

"Then you'd better go, you wouldn't want to be late. I'll keep an eye on _them_. –I just wish they would behave like normal people, like us –why can't they go meet their friends in the evening like you, darling? Instead they watch that weird flickering thing with the moving pictures. I bet it´s really harmful."

Mr Goyle grunted approving and glanced a last time over to their neighbours. The man was pushing some growling thing over the garden, always back and forth.

"Freaks," Mr Goyle said, and apparated away.


	6. On Your Own

**On Your Own**

Severus Snape stared over the classroom after the students had left. The boy had performed a perfect advanced pain-numbing charm. The kind of charm one only learnt with lots of practice.

He had tried to read the students mind, unobtrusively of course, just trying to catch some glimpses as to how the sixth year would know that particular spell so well.

He had not managed to gather even a single thought from the boy. His mind was shielded completely, not letting any random thoughts drift out. His mental defences were impressive, worthy of a Master of Occlumency.

Severus Snape did not see the classroom anymore. He knew, without proof, without Legilmency, where that kind of abilities came from.

The boy was an outsider, a loner. Very clever. Talented. And his future was already decided for him.

Severus Snape didn't see the classroom anymore. His thoughts went back in time to another boy, about twenty years ago. So similar.

Severus Snape shook himself. There was nothing he could do. The boy would have to find his own path. After all, nobody had helped _him_ all these years ago either.

Maybe the boy would some day realise that his own choices were what mattered, were the only thing that mattered in the end, and no one else could make these decisions for him.

That no matter what the circumstances, no matter how much others pressured you and how impossible it seemed, each man was the master of his own fate.

Maybe. The boy would have to learn that lesson on his own. If he lived long enough. Maybe he would make the right choice then. Just like he had.


End file.
